Lips are just tinted to serve as portal into the human soul;
rosy-brown and intimate,
I have never quite been able to figure out if softness of his lips is more
than that of association with the words that he speaks—
my wings in raptures
about the ridge of his upper lip, glossy and thin,
fluent in deciphering rainbows in the dark,
a sensual fluidity synchronized
in mind and movement— my breath hitches at mere thought of them.
Warring with sleep, I listen to their song;
as syllables fall like cherry blossoms
spiraling downwards
on my one, my lone trembling sigh, making a Poet out of me.
Upon these lips a sacrament,
a liturgy,  a confirmation, a rite is found; seeing something deep
within the other’s soul and recognizing it
as their own, wet orchids
clothed in spring rain,
there is something undeniably eternal  about them for they too
are a passing point
of deeper communication—some of the most worthwhile moments
on this earth are when lips travel down to
the collarbone,
persistently as the moon glimmers on the waves; trust the vibes
you get from them, for energy doesn’t lie.
This is my confession, my adulation of his softer
than soft lips as clouds overhead immerse themselves; it rained all night.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Jarek Puczel “Lovers,” Painting Pinterest

An early unveiling of the April Poem-a-Day Challenge, Day 9 🥠

Grace hosts at dVerse and asks us to write a poem about bodyparts (e.g. eyes, hands, feet) as a metaphor and/or story 💝

Posted for MTB: “The Body and Poetry,” @ dVerse Poets Pub